


NYC

by orphan_account



Category: Bob Dylan - Fandom
Genre: 1960s, 1975 bob looks back on his life, Alcohol Addiction, Angst, Bob Dylan - Freeform, Drug Addiction, F/M, Fluff, M/M, NYC, New York City, Non-Explicit Sex, Prostitution, The Band - Freeform, a little angst?? but not like... a lot, bob dylan and the band, bob's an insomniac, nyc in the 60s, nyc in the 70s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-18 00:31:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20630111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Sometimes, Bob absolutely despised New York. He'd think about all the awful ways it's treated him and they outweigh the good things nearly every time. Then, he thinks about the people he's met, and it's not so bad, after all.





	NYC

**Author's Note:**

> i started writing this a while ago & finally finished it! hope it's easy to understand. i know it's a lot... lmk what you think!

The streets of Greenwich Village are dark and damp, but for the lamp posts on each corner that cast an ugly yellow light which makes anyone who stands under it appear old and sickly. Bob walks alone, listening to the sound of his wooden heels clicking against the cobblestone streets with each step he takes. No one is around tonight, not this late, at least. Everyone's gone home with their girls to their shoebox apartments and is probably fast asleep by now.

Bob walks with no purpose at all. He feels himself dip back into a sort of nostalgic feeling. He remembers, as he walks these stony streets, the Greenwich Village from fifteen years ago; the Village he knew from prolonged memories, stories he seldom told people, even his closest friends.

He remembers walking these streets after he couldn't find a couch to sleep on and didn't want to bother Richard Fariña again. He had slept in Richard’s apartment, which used to be uptown in the basement of a house his uncle owned, all weekend. Richard’s parents were in Brooklyn, but in an attempt to be closer to the center of Manhattan, he moved out. 

Richard’s apartment smelled of Cuban cigars and dust. Bob was thankful for the couch, but left smelling like tobacco. Well, not like he doesn't usually smell like tobacco, but he really noticed it after staying at Richard’s-- that was _ real _tobacco, not the fake shit. It made him feel grimy and like he needed to take a shower. 

That starry night, in 1961, he was jonesing for a cigarette. He thought maybe if he walked a couple more blocks East he could steal some off of the closed-up newsstand on the corner. All he'd have to do is stick his arm inside the cage they close around it at night and grab a pack off of the counter. 

He sighed. That would require a lot more walking than he wanted to do. Right then, he'd like to crawl in a soft, warm bed and lay his head upon a feathery pillow. Didn't matter who he slept with, so long as he got that nice bed he'd been dreaming of ever since he landed in New York City. Well, he wouldn't mind sleeping next to a pretty girl. That would be nice, too.

Park benches would do, and if he was lucky, a friend’s couch. _ It could be worse _, he thought, he could be friendless. He's lucky to have got friends in the city. It just took him a little long to find them. 

The guitar was starting to get heavy on his back. He found himself walking up to Washington Square Park, which was his favorite; it had enough benches for him to never run out of a place to sit, and sometimes the man who ran the hot dog stand would give him a free one as he was closing up shop, and on occasion, if he felt pitiful, a small bottle of Coke, too. That happened often in the summer, but not so much in the fall. 

That never happened at Tompkins Square Park. Just the thought of Tompkins Square Park sends a shiver down Bob’s spine. There were awful people there, and still are. That's where Bob went when he was completely broke and hungry out of his mind. That's where Bob went when he could see his ribcage pop out of his skin as he changed and washed his shirt in the bathroom of a coffeehouse. That's where Bob went when he was malnourished and upset and alone and scared of what would happen if he went another day without a meal. 

That's where women stood on corners smoking cigarettes, women whose skirts were short enough that Bob could see the line of their lacey underwear if he looked. That's where expensive men would drive up in their fancy cars and open the passenger door with a mean, menacing look on their faces, always the same smirk, always the same tight grip on the steering wheel that would turn to grabby hands as soon as one of the girls would sit in his car. 

Bob had been picked up before, on a different street corner where sad, skinny men stood, but not so many times. He thinks it's because he was never attractive enough. The women sure were pretty in the daytime, but at night, in the yellow light of the street lamp, they had something sad about them that made them look much older and unattractive. You could see the dark circles under their eyes and the bruises in the crooks of their elbows. And up close, their cake makeup and rouge and mascara looked fake and greasy as if staring into the face of a dusty old marionette doll or a dirty clown. 

They'd look at Bob and sneer and say: “How much money you got, kid?” and he'd have to tell them that he wasn't picking them up, he was just looking for a place for himself to stay. They'd immediately scowl and turn away, and one of them, Bob remembers, was so tall that he could feel her cigarette ashes when she tapped them out onto the pavement.

The times Bob himself had been picked up were few. It was always older men with hard lines drawn in their faces, frowning, as if they don't want to do it and were forced to. Sometimes, it was a woman. Their houses were always big and empty. When they were done with Bob, they would count their money, and Bob would watch over their shoulders and count it with them. They always had a lot of money, so much it used to make Bob feel the need to make even more. Someday he would.

The men never gave him their names, but one, which Bob liked to call Ghosty due to the man’s pale skin and blond hair, was very kind to Bob. The man was younger than the rest, in his forties, and had icy blue eyes the same color as Bob’s. That's why, Bob thinks, Ghosty picked him, on a cold December night in 1961.

Ghosty had a Cadillac and drove slow and steady despite there being less people on the roads. His apartment was on the Upper West Side and the front probably had a doorman and a Christmas tree in the lobby, but Ghosty led him through a back door, up a dark staircase. 

The apartment was high up, and by the time they got there Bob was out of breath. It was a beautiful place: spacious, with high ceilings and wooden floors covered in oriental rugs. Ghosty had led him into a large master bedroom with a four post bed.

There were large paintings covering the walls and an ornate dresser and bookcase which sat in the far end. There were silver platters of French cologne and clean, crystal ashtrays on the bedside table. Bob felt dark and dirty standing in such a spotless room.

“I've never done this before,” Ghosty had said, the first words he spoke, as Bob set down his guitar case and began unbuttoning his jacket. His voice was deep and smooth like chocolate, yet it startled Bob.

“Well,” Bob said, draping his jacket on the floor next to his case, “I’ll do whatever you want me to.” He removed his hat and shook out his hair.

Ghosty stared at his hands. “You're young, aren't you.”

Bob had slowly approached him. “I’m nineteen, nearly twenty.”

Ghosty cursed under his breath. “Jesus.”

Bob frowned. He wondered if the man was just going to kick him back out on the curb, and the thought made his blood boil. “Do you want to do anything, or should I just leave, man?” His voice was laced with bitterness, but at the end, it cracked, and revealed a looming paranoia that sat above himself like a dark cloud.

Ghosty stood, and though he was much taller than Bob, he seemed smaller. He was thin and his high-waisted slacks made him appear even thinner. His hand, which adorned long, bony fingers, came up to hold Bob’s jaw. Bob froze underneath his touch. The men he'd been with never touched him like that, maybe except for sticking their hands in his hair and tugging, or slapping him, or something to that effect. 

Ghosty leaned down and kissed Bob softly, his lips cold and gentle. Bob just barely kissed back, and, unsure of what to do with his hands, kept them at his sides. When the older man pulled back, Bob caught his breath, staring up at him. 

When Bob got him off, Ghosty whispered someone else's name. Bob can't remember what the name was anymore, but as Ghosty pulled at his curls, his eyes closed and head thrown back, he heard the name over and over again. He understood why, but it made him upset. This man had to hide his feelings in someone he found on the side of the road. 

Bob sat back on his knees on the bed when he was finished. He wasn't hard, but the man before him, his cheeks now flushed in a rosy color, looked less of a ghost and more of a sort of prince, with shining golden hair. 

Bob got up to find a bathroom. There was one attached to the bedroom, covered in marble and gold and porcelain, but the mirror was large and frightening. There was a light-purple bar of lilac soap in a dish. When Bob washed his hands with it, he felt rich. He longed to use the shower. He had used Richard’s on Saturday morning (even though there was no hot water and the soap bar felt like sandpaper), but that felt like forever ago. 

He tried to avoid his own eyes in the mirror. His reflection felt different, daunting, like some stranger he passed on 42nd street with a mean look in his eyes. Against his reflection, he felt small. He felt worthless.

When he went back into the bedroom, Ghosty was bent over himself, yet he wasn't counting money. He was crying, sobbing into his hands quietly, almost silently. Bob stood in the doorway.

“Do you want me to do anything?” he asked softly, wringing his hands.

Ghosty seemed startled that Bob was still there. He hid his face, grasping for a handkerchief to rub his eyes before he sat up straight again.

“No, that's all right,” Ghosty said, and stood shakily, staring at Bob with pale, glassy eyes. “Say, are those your only clothes?”

Bob looked down at himself, at the thin button-up that he seemed to always wear, and the dark jeans that were almost baggy around his thin legs. “I've got some in my case, but, uh…”

Ghosty went to his closet, and when he opened it Bob felt his heart drop. It was enormous. Full of divine dress suits and ties and coats. Lining the bottom were shelves of freshly polished shoes and on a hook hung hats of different sizes and fabrics.

“Here,” Ghosty said, picking out a few Oxford cloth shirts which looked unworn and brand new. He handed them to Bob. “Those should fit.” 

Then he grabbed a hat, black and puffy with a firm rim, and placed it on top of Bob’s head. Bob rushed to the bathroom to see. 

“Hey, man, wow!” he said, grinning at his reflection. The hat fit perfectly. “I love it!” 

When he went back to the room, Ghosty stood at his dresser, pulling out a wad of cash. Bob couldn’t stand to watch him count. He tried as hard as he could to stuff his clothes in his guitar case without messing them up. 

Bob can't remember exactly how much money he got, but it was beyond enough to buy food and coffee for another two weeks. He saved some of it in case a snow storm came and he needed to rent a hotel room. He stuffed it in his sock. 

Now, in 1975, Bob walks alone. His hands are stuffed in his pockets and he settles into a park bench. He remembers having to shove his shirts into a ball on these benches, in the park or subway, to use as a makeshift pillow. For a little while, he used to sleep with his guitar underneath the bench, and his arms crossed over his chest, and often he'd have a pocketknife tucked underneath his jacket in case someone tried to threaten him in the night.

He remembers waking up on these benches just at the crack of dawn, when, in the fall and winter, the sun rose later in the morning. There were not many people around that early. Later on, there'd be men in business suits holding briefcases and women in fur coats walking dogs. But at dawn, New York City was silent, the calm before the 8 a.m. storm of people and cars on their way to work. 

Sometimes Bob hated New York. Sometimes he wished he was back in Minnesota where he had a family and a home. It wasn't much of a family then, when his father shamed him for wanting to become an artist instead of going to college like a young man should. Not when his mother’s lips would turn downwards when Bob spoke, her eyes dark and furious when she realized that Bob was not going to become what her and her husband are, and that he was not going to live or talk or act like them at all.

So Bob would stay in Manhattan as long as he could, until he got famous. It was no use looking like a fool in front of his parents. 

In the morning, he would walk along Fifth Avenue and perhaps get a coffee with the fifty cents he sometimes had jingling around in his pocket. It would be fine to spend it, so long as he had a slot tonight at Café Wha later in the day. That way, he might get something out of the basket at the end of the night, and a burger, too, if the basket was empty and he needed to get paid.

Early one Tuesday morning, Bob sat in a diner on Bleecker Street, one he always went to. The waitress, a lonely old woman named Shirley, looked a little pissed off that she had to serve people this early.

Bob had expected to be the only one, but across the diner sat a young woman with golden hair, her eyes staring deep into her cup of coffee. She was gorgeous, the most lovely looking girl Bob had ever seen. Her olive skin glowed in the early morning light that wafted into the diner.

Bob found himself approaching the woman. “Hi,” he had said, a little nervously. She looked up from her coffee and smiled at him. 

“Hello.”

Bob scratched the back of his head. “Do you mind if I, uh, sit?”

She shook her head, so he sat, and watched as she sipped her coffee steadily. 

“Are you a musician?” she asked, gesturing to his guitar which he had set on the floor between them. Her voice had a funny twinge to it, a slight Brooklyn accent. 

“Yeah,” he replied, nodding his head, “I play over at Café Wha, you know, and uh, Gerde’s, and sometimes the Gaslight, too…” 

She nodded. “I think I saw you a couple nights ago.” 

He straightened up in his seat. “You did?”

“Sure. You have that funny little thing for your harmonica, right?”

Bob felt his ears go red from embarrassment. “Yeah… Yeah, I used t’ make it out of coat hangers… ‘s a dumb thing, really, but it works…”

“I think it's cute.” She reached her hand out to him across the table. “I'm Suze.”

He shook her hand, which was soft and small, and surprisingly warm, compared to his own. “'M Robert.”

She smiled and cocked her head, her hand retreating from his and curling back around her coffee cup to keep warm. “You don't look much like a Robert to me. You look more like a Bob.”

“Bob, huh?” He nodded. “Yeah, I guess so. I guess I jus’ changed it ‘cause I didn't want people calling me Bobby anymore.”

She grinned. “Well, I think I'll call you Bob.”

Soon, Suze and him would be staying together. He missed her place, though perhaps it was small. Its perpetually messy bed stuffed in the corner, the old record player that sat heavily on the coffee table. His harmonicas, all in different keys, which would find themselves in random places-- beneath cupboards, under the bed, stuck on top of high shelves-- as if they sprouted wings and flew. One of Bob’s favorite parts: there was always food. Even if it was a piece of rye bread and cheese, he could find something to eat. 

He was only homeless for a few months, in the fall and winter of 1961. Chip Monck, who was a technician at many of the folk clubs Bob would play at, had a little basement apartment underneath the Village Gate. In the summer of 1962, Bob lived with Chip. He often only used the apartment to drop off his belongings before heading back out again, and, of course, to sleep. That was when Suze left to study in Italy. Bob missed her then, and using Chip’s typewriter, would spend hours writing love songs to her.

In 1962, a year and a half after meeting Suze, Bob would be playing late into the night at Gerde’s. That's where he would meet Joan Baez, someone he'd only seen on television networks, the woman with long black hair and melancholy eyes and a voice so beautiful that it could lull you into calmness. 

In the basement of Gerde's Folk City, where performers often met before they went on to play, Bob felt like nothing compared to Joan. And rightly so. He was a scruffy little kid and she already had two records to her name and, from what Bob knew, was considered a Queen in the folk music world.

As he clicked his harmonica into his holder and strummed his guitar back into tune, she watched him, a subtle smirk on her lips. 

“What’s your name?” she asked him. He looked at her, almost in fear.

“Bob Dylan.” 

“What are you gonna play tonight?”

“My own songs, I think.” 

She seemed surprised at that. “You write your own songs?”

He nodded, and continued tuning his guitar. “Yes’m.”

Suddenly she became intrigued. She stood. “About what?”

He grinned. “Oh, jus’ about everything. The sky. The streets. Uh, the President and his wife.” 

She reached over and plucked Bob’s glasses off of his nose. Then she peered into his eyes. “Your eyes are really blue,” she said, then tried on his glasses. “God, you must be blind!” She handed them back with a laugh. 

She went upstairs to watch his set. He played only three songs, and tried to do ones that were original, but for maybe the melody. He could spot her in the back of the audience through most of the set, but tried to avoid eye contact, afraid she'd mess him up. 

She sure was beautiful, but as he longed for her, he longed to be apart from Suze.

“Bob,” Suze whispered one night, as Bob struggled to pull off his boots. It was late, nearly 2AM, and he had just gotten back from playing a slot. “Can we talk?”

Bob glanced up at her and raised his eyebrows. He finally pulled off his boot and began working on the other. “Sure, we can talk.”

She sat down next to him, and he heard a rustling in the room over. His head snapped up. “Is she here?”

“Is who here?”

Bob tossed his boot on the floor. “Your sister.”

She took a while to answer, and nodded. Bob felt his skin prickle and a growing anger bubble inside of him. But he said nothing, kept his mouth sewn shut and stared at the floor.

Suze finally spoke. In a small voice, she whispered, “I’m pregnant.”

His mouth went dry. “What?”

She didn't dare utter the words again. “I have a doctor’s appointment on Friday. Someone told me he'd do a great job. I just need half the money for it, and then it’ll be--”

“Jesus, Suze--” Bob stood and rubbed at his eyes. “Christ.”

She kept on, her voice becoming rushed as if trying to make up for something. “It won't be that much, Bob, but I can't-- _ have _ it, you know that-- it'll be--”

“I know, I know.” Bob waved his hand at her. “How much?”

“I'm not sure yet, it changes depending on how long--”

“How long have you known?”

Suze went quiet. She stared at her hands in her lap. Bob rubbed the back of his head, and repeated himself, his voice growing hard around the edges. “How _ long _ have you known?”

Things were changing in the Rotolo apartment. Nothing, really, would be the same-- what with Suze’s abortion, which went smoothly but left Bob feeling bitter and juvenile; Bob’s lingering affair with Joan, which hadn't yet surfaced into his and Suze’s world yet; and Carla, Suze’s sister, moving in. 

Carla, although she helped Bob and Suze formally meet each other, hated Bob’s guts, and vice versa. If she would leave the face of the earth forever and never come back, Bob wouldn't mind. She nags him, as if she's his mother. She speaks in the thickets Queens accent he's ever heard and talks to him as if she's got something more important to say. And Bob shoots back at her. They go at each other constantly. 

The night Suze found out, she wasn't angry so much as disappointed-- upset. She sat on the bed for most of the night with her face in her hands as her and Bob tried to talk it out. Carla, on the other hand, was absolutely furious. 

“You think you can just do that? Do you understand how much she's given to you?” She had said to him, her voice rising. “Two fuckin’ years living off of her money and her food and her life--”

Bob intervened, his face red. “_ I'm _the one living off of her? You don't even have a fuckin’ job, man--” 

Carla was fuming: her dark hair was disheveled and her nostrils flared. She stared at Bob with a passion he'd never seen from anyone, and when she spoke, she spat. “You're a little schmuck, you know that? Why don't you just go!” 

Bob went quiet for a second, and folded his arms over his chest. “No.”

“No?!” 

Suze tried to pull on Carla's sleeve. “Carla, stop it--”

Bob inched closer to her. “This is my place, too.”

If he was honest with himself, he'd think he was acting reckless. His adrenaline was so high in the moment that he drowned out all of Carla's yelling, all of his own yelling, not really sure what was coming out of his mouth. Truth be told, he was a little drunk-- well, maybe more than a little.

He pushed her, not hard enough for her to fall on her back, but enough to have her stumble on her feet. He heard Suze cry out his name, and then, before he could think of batting her away, Carla pushed him back.

By the end of the night, he ended up packing up his things. Suze was crying and Carla was muttering and drinking whiskey. He didn't feel much like a failure at all-- more like he had closed up a wound he had been neglecting for too long.

By 1964 he'd be living in the Chelsea Hotel with Joan. By that time, he'd have three going on four records out. Joan was almost always with him then, waking up with him and going to bed with him. They were a couple, like everyone wanted them to be: they sung together, protested together, the complete package for any folk-lover. They were, in plain words, a sort of duo.

The Chelsea Hotel was beautiful in the morning. Sunlight would stream through the curtains and illuminate Joan’s tan skin. In springtime, both of them would have light freckles that dotted their cheeks. Bob would sometimes count the ones scattered over Joan’s bare shoulders as if they were constellations in a clear night sky. 

That's if he went to bed at all. By that time, he'd be staying up all night at the typewriter, writing and smoking and writing some more. By 1964, there were enough amphetamines in his bloodstream to keep him without eating for a whole day at a time, unless Joan was there to force him to eat something. She’d feed him cheese and red wine and he'd smoke and drink and type and Joan would often sing and play for him. She knew her voice helped him write better; anything in the background helped Bob write better. He hated writing in silence. 

Joan often woke in the middle of the night and begged him to come to bed. She was able to sing lullabies, beautiful little whispers in his ear, until he fell asleep. He seldom slept more than five hours at a time, though.

Joan woke up on Chelsea mornings and the first thing she did was sit up and stretch her long arms up in the air, cracking the sleep out of her back. Bob would watch her from the bed, at how perfect her silhouette looked in front of the gleaming sunlight. 

He'd reach out and place a warm hand on her hip, and she'd look at him over her shoulder and smile. Sometimes, if she felt like it, after she got up to brush her teeth, she would come back and sit on his hips. He loved it when she did that. 

She would bend down and kiss him, pressing her tongue past his lips until they moved together in a slow, lazy rhythm. Bob would hold her at the top of her thighs, where they met her hips, and would let his hands dip underneath her nighty and touch the soft skin underneath. They would make love like that, with her on top of him. He liked seeing her sit back on him, her cheeks pink and her brow creased in pleasure. She would grab at him, searching for his hands, and bring them up to touch her chest, holding her breasts through her night dress. She was a gorgeous sight to see, that's for sure, and in the moment Bob thought he would never get rid of her. 

Bob laughs. In Washington Square Park, where he is now, there are a group of teenage boys across the field. They’re waving a bottle around and drinking and laughing, and they do not look nice. Bob stands and begins to walk further away.

He walks out on University Place and passes a phone booth that he vividly remembers. Then, in 1965, it was rusty and old-- now, it's covered in graffiti and swear words. 

He used that phone booth on cool spring evening. He had gotten in a fight with Neuwirth over something dumb like a girl or a song-- Bob can't seem to remember exactly what the argument was anymore. He had stormed out of the club they were in full of anger and nervous energy, and didn't want to go back home to Sara. He needed someone different, someone who he could have fun with without being taunted...

“Robbie?” he whispered into the phone. “Hey, Robbie? Are you home?”

“Bob?” 

“Yeah, it's me.” Bob saw Neuwirth exit the club out of the corner of his eye. He was searching for Bob, lighting a cigarette on the stoop. “Hey, can I come over?”

He heard a bustling noise on the other line. “Uhh… Yeah, sure. If you want to.” 

“Okay, great. I'll be there in ten.” He paused, then added, “You’re alone, right?”

Robbie laughed. “Yeah, man, I'm alone. I'm watching Westerns and eating a TV dinner.” 

“Perfect. Just great. I'll see you soon.”

He had slammed the phone back down just as Neuwirth began to approach him, his cigarette sticking to his lip, hanging on as if it was scared of being put out. 

“Where are you goin’?!” Neuwirth yelled down the street. 

Bob shot up his middle finger. “Why does it matter, asshole!”

Neuwirth flicked his half-smoked cigarette on the ground and stepped on it with his boot. “Can't you just get over it? It was a fuckin’ joke!”

Bob walked off to the street, lighting his own cigarette hastily and hailing a cab.

“Well fuck you, too, then!” Neuwirth shouted and Bob ignored him. He didn't want to say that this happened often between them; usually, him and Neuwirth agree on things. They were always together then, during 1965… Neuwirth stuck to him like the cigarette on his lip. Sometimes, though, Bob would become aware of the effect Neuwirth had on himself. That's when he needed to get away from him.

Robbie's place was in the Irving Hotel overlooking Gramercy Park. Bob had only been a handful of times, as he didn't live there for very long. It was a suite on the top floor, but it didn't have much: a king-sized bed, a nice television, a kitchenette with a small fridge.

Robbie opened the door quickly, grinning down at Bob. “Hey!” 

Bob smiled warily. “Hey.” Robbie moved to let him in and closed the door behind him. 

“Where's your girl at?” Bob asked. 

“She hasn't called me yet tonight,” Robbie answered, and with a wink, asked, “What about yours?”

Bob shrugged off his jacket and wandered into Robbie's apartment. “Sara went down to Delaware to see her parents for the weekend.” Robbie knew it was a lie, but he didn't say anything. He often doesn't. Knowing Bob's lies is like a secret he keeps to himself, and when Bob realizes, it makes him feel juvenile and small. He opened the refrigerator and pulled out the small case of beers. “Wanna get drunk?”

He had already gotten pretty tipsy with Neuwirth, but needed to get his mind off everything for a while. 

So Robbie and him smoked and drank all night, and consequently ended up passed out in bed by the end of the night. Bob woke up, still hazy and a little drunk, in the middle of the night. Robbie's arm was slung over his waist, his palm resting gently against his chest. Bob could feel his breath ghost against the back of his neck and felt his skin tingle.

He looked over his shoulder and saw Robbie’s sleeping face against the pillow, his hair droopy and disheveled. He could only make out his features through the dim light of the television left on, which left a low whirring noise from the show. 

“Robbie,” he whispered. He was beside himself, unsure of what his true intentions were.

The other man stirred in his sleep, sort of groaning. He couldn't have a hangover yet, Bob thought, and pushed anyway. 

“Hey, Robbie?”

His eyes slowly opened, sleep stuck to his long lashes. He yawned. “What's up?”

Bob was quiet for a moment, then frowned and said, “I'm sorry for waking you up.”

Robbie laughed a little. “That's all right. What is it?”

Bob turned over, facing the man. “Wanna know somethin’?”

Robbie said, “Sure, Bobby,” in a sleepy voice. 

“A long time ago, when I first came to New York, I used to sell my body, you know.”

"Did you get it back?"

It made Bob smile a bit. Robbie seemed so much younger, but maybe Bob was aging himself. He said, "No, man, I mean, for sex." There was a long pause. "I mean, women and men would pay me for it, and I'd use the money for food and drugs and all that."

Robbie's eyes opened. He stared at Bob quizzically. He didn't say anything. 

“I'd hustle, you know, uptown. For a little while. You know, _ Midnight Cowboy _ stuff. You ever read that book?” His hand came up to pick an eyelash off of Robbie's cheek. 

Robbie went quiet. “That's... Why would you do that?”

Bob didn't answer. He didn't answer for a while, so long that in the dim, almost-nothing light, Robbie began to wonder if it was a dream. Then Bob spoke again. “I just thought you should know.”

Robbie's eyes flicked to his. They were hazy, sort of unclear and a bit dazed. Bob doesn't remember much from the rest of that night, but he remembers Robbie had smiled softly and held him, letting themselves fall back into sleep.

_ Jesus, _ he thinks now, continuing to walk after he stares at the payphone for too long. _ I was really something back then. _

Ten years ago, him and Sara first met. Now, Sara must hate him; he tries not to care too much, though the distance between them has been eating him up inside. When he lies next to her he doesn't feel as close as he did on those Chelsea nights ten years ago. The bed feels cold. Sara turns his back to him at night and only attends events if she's needed. 

Bob doesn't blame her, but he misses what they had. 

He remembers first meeting her. He was at some fancy restaurant in the Upper East Side with his old manager Albert, drinking and talking to men in tacky monkey suits and slicked-back hair. It was sometime in late 1964, if his memory serves him correctly. Sara was still married to her first husband, and he was there, too. He was a photographer, and looked much older than she. 

She caught his eye, sitting at a table not far from his own. He had smiled at her, a little worried that he had begun staring-- after all, it was hard not to stare. Her hair was curled and went to her shoulders, much shorter than Suze’s or Joan’s; her skin was pale and her cheeks were rosy, and her eyes were wide and doe-like, and watched him with a calm intuitiveness. 

If Bob believed in it, he would've thought this was love at first sight. She smiled back at him, the corners of her cherry-red lips turning upwards. 

He hadn't had the courage to go up to her until he had downed a couple glasses of Port wine. He was a little tipsy, and went up to her table without caution, trying to act cool in his beatnik sweater and black slacks. He had touched his hair at least ten times before going over, and removed and replaced his sunglasses until he decided to simply keep them off.

Sara was pushed off to the side of the conversation of her party. It was mostly men, all in their thirties, and some of their wives. The wives sat quietly while the men boasted and laughed and celebrated with champagne. Bob wasn't sure what they were celebrating at all.

Her husband, Hans, had his arm slung over Sara’s shoulders, his hand hanging heavy there. Bob noticed that his ring-finger adorned a thin gold band, while Sara’s had no ring at all.

He had slid into a conversation with her, much to the dismay of Hans. These people all seemed to be artists, filmmakers, or photographers. Sara spoke in small fragments of sentences, as if she wasn't used to it.

“Do you like films? How ‘bout I take you to the movies some time,” Bob said, after she had spiked a particular interest in _ My Fair Lady _.

Sara laughed sweetly. “Oh, I don't go that often. Donn does, though. Right, Donn?”

Donn was a filmmaker, about 15 years Bob’s senior. His head perked up at the sound of his name. He turned to greet Sara and him.

“Sure, I like films,” Donn said. “I'd love to make a film starring beautiful Sara.”

Sara blushed. “I'm no actress. I'm too shy for films.”

Bob must've watched her every mannerism: the way her hands wrung in her lap, how she’d sometimes touch her curls to make sure they were still in place, and how she looked down at her shoes when she became flustered. He couldn't get enough. She was everything he wanted.

“Can I get your phone number?” he asked on a whim, probably cutting someone off. Hans heard him, and his hand came to grip Sara’s shoulder.

Sara was reluctant to answer. “Um…”

“I mean, I'm a musician. And we're always lookin’ for models for the covers, you know, of records. An’ you're a model, right?”

She nodded. “Yeah, I am.”

“Great, so uh. I’ll give it to my manager. It’s no big deal, right?” he said. Hans was watching him intently, dark, deep-seated eyes on the look. Bob, a bit uncomfortable, turned to Donn again. “You said you do films?”

“Sure,” Donn said, “It’s what I do best.”

Bob nodded, pondering. “I could use a film. We’re on tour soon. Hey, I’ll keep in touch with you, too, man.”

That night, he left without Sara. Naturally, because he isn't the kind of guy to steal a man's wife. But he did get her number.

“She's gonna be mine,” he said to Neuwirth as they filed out, fixing his shades back on his nose. It was late. It was dark. Bob was drunk. “I'm gonna marry her, you just wait until I marry her.”

“All right, Bobby. You go marry her.” Neuwirth laughed and slung his arm around Bob’s shoulder and the rest of their walk home, they fell into a drunken rendition of Ritchie Valens’ _ We Belong Together. _

Neuwirth and him had many nights when they'd fight, and many nights where they'd be drunk and high and happy and nothing in the world bothered them, and nights where they'd perhaps scrutinize or tease others with jabs and pokes. Bob had fun: he know he did. Those were some of the best years of his life. 

He remembers a time when Neuwirth and him were alone in Neuwirth’s room smoking grass. Neuwirth was always laughing and cracking jokes, but when he was high, he wanted one of two things: food or sex. All he talked about was girls when he was high. He'd tell Bob about the girls he'd bring home from the parties they went to, from the clubs, how some of them were actresses or models or artists, how some of them were addicted to drugs, how some of them would be awful at it and some would be amazing.

Bob listened, of course, but he was stoned: what did he have to say about it all?

One particular night, Neuwirth was chewing on a day-old baguette, which had already gone stale. He was drinking red wine and as him and Bob passed the bud between themselves, he talked about Edie Sedgwick, the chick he'd been going out with for a while.

“She thinks I've been seeing other _ people _ , man, and, you know, _ of course _ I have-- Of course I have! And, and I'm sure she has, too!” he'd said, exasperated. Bob watched him intently as he took a hit of the joint. “I mean, I'm not around all the time, you know?” 

“Yeah.”

“And I love her, you know, I do-- She's so insecure about those things. We were supposed to not be so… Be so constrained, you know?”

“Yeah.”

“Is that the right word?”

“Yeah.”

Neuwirth shook his head. “I need a vacation, man.”

Bob stared at his face, much softer without the shades covering his eyes. Neuwirth went on, and Bob wasn't really listening at all. He was too high to think. 

As he passed Neuwirth the joint, he had a thought. There's not much you can do to get someone else to stop talking: either you start talking, or you make them stop. Somewhere in Bob’s hazy mind, he couldn't put together a way to tell Neuwirth to just shut up for a bit. 

So he kissed him. He leaned over and pressed their lips together, halfway through Neuwirth’s conversation. 

It wasn't an emotional kiss, or even a sexual one. It was just… a kiss. There was nothing attached to it. No feelings. It's not like Bob had ever thought about being with Neuwirth before, and vice versa. It just _ happened _, like anything else happens. 

When it registered, Neuwirth was a bit taken aback. He pulled back from Bob, staring at him. “Why'd you do that?”

Bob shrugged. “You were talking too much.”

Neuwirth had simply said, “Oh.” And didn't ask about it again. Periodically, through the night, when Neuwirth would get particularly anxious or paranoid, Bob would lean over and peck him on the lips, and the talk would go away for a while. 

Sometimes, it turned into more than just a peck. Sometimes when there was nothing left to smoke they'd fool around and fall asleep and wake up as if nothing happened. 

Thinking back on it now, that's how Bob went through life: as if nothing happened. And if something did happen, it didn't affect him. Like Sara. Like Joan. Even his best friends. 

He walks in solitude until he reaches his own apartment building. He's a little embarrassed that he's been out so late. No one is standing in the lobby, and as he walks up the stairs to his floor, he ponders. _ Where is everyone? _ he thinks. _ The city is so lonely when I'm the only one here. _

He misses Suze and Joan and Sara and Robbie and Neuwirth, but he'd feel silly calling them up now. Maybe if he got drunk or high or something. He's not really sure yet.

Now though, he thinks maybe he’ll listen to a record and try to write and maybe fall asleep eventually, under the pale New York City moonlight. 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
